


The Adventure of the Tilly Briggs (or Terror on the High Seas)

by mintwitch



Category: Love Boat, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Corporate Espionage, Crack, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 13:58:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintwitch/pseuds/mintwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events in "The Scientific Method," Sherlock accepts a case aboard the luxury cruise ship Matilda Briggs. Hilarity ensues. A multi-chapter crossover with the US series Love Boat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I, Scene I:  CANNIBAL IDEA MOSH  (Friday, May 14th)

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of (possibly) seventeen. It's been a while since I've written a chapter-ed fic, so we'll see how it goes.

John was chased out of the clinic before lunch by Sarah, wielding a mobile and a grim expression. He had been ignoring Sherlock’s texts, but he couldn’t ignore his boss shoving his jacket at him, and pushing him out the door to the waiting cab.

“We’ll be fine, once your lunatic partner,” she said scathingly, “is no longer blocking the access and scaring patients. I’ll see you in three weeks.” Her unvoiced ‘maybe’ came through loud and clear.

Sherlock had somehow convinced the cab driver to lean on his horn for the past five minutes, while Sherlock lounged in the back seat, sending aggravating texts. The noise stopped as soon as John slid in beside him, and Sherlock dropped his phone into one of his myriad pockets.

“Ah, John, so glad you could make it.” Sherlock leaned forward, addressing the cabbie. “Paddington Station, please, and do hurry.”

Dr John Watson was seated firmly on the horns of a dilemma. Should he begin the royal arse-chewing, or eschew all words, in favor of a frosty silence? Which would most clearly communicate his extreme ire? Maybe he should just punch Sherlock; it had worked before, albeit temporarily.

Reading the thought in John's expression, Sherlock leaned back a bit, and attempted his most charming and macabre smile, like Vincent Price without the humanity. “John. John, really, I couldn’t possibly spend twenty-two days cruising the Mediterranean without you, could I? I knew you would want to come, and there was simply no time. We have to be at Southampton in less than three hours. John. John. Forgive me, John.” He batted his eyelashes, insincerely.

“You…” John sputtered. “You absolute tit! Fourteen texts in five minutes. How is that even possible? _Come, John. Let’s go, John. Where are you, John. I’m outside, John. Why aren’t you answering, John. He’s a hypochondriac, John, not worth your time. _I was with a patient! I have a job! People depend on me, Sherlock; I can't just skyve off on your whim.”__

“I depend on you, John,” his flat mate sulked. “Besides, this is a job. A much more exciting job than Harold Pye’s imaginary shingles. Mystery on the high seas! Think of it: danger, adventure, exotic ports of call. Tell me that’s not more interesting than another case of piles.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me? It’s not like I’ve been hiding. You couldn’t have said yesterday, ‘Oh, by the way, John, I’ve got a case, can you take off early tomorrow?‘ Is that to much to ask?“

Sherlock pouted at him. “It was supposed to be a surprise. A romantic gesture. People in relationships do those sorts of things, I understand.”

“Who told you that?” John was genuinely curious. Who would Sherlock go to for relationship advice?

“Woman’s Weekly,” Sherlock declared, triumphantly.

The cabbie snickered. “I’m not a woman, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave him a blank look. “Obviously,” he said, glancing towards John’s crotch.

Oh, fuck it. It was useless. John capitulated with ill grace. “Fine. Whatever. Where are we going, now that you‘ve successfully kidnapped me?”

Sherlock grinned, and dropped him a wink. “When we’re on the train. Ears, you know,” he said, tapping the side of his nose, then turning his attention to the passing scenery.

They arrived at the station fairly quickly, London traffic being comparatively thin at midday. Their driver unloaded John’s laptop bag and duffle, then half a dozen matched suitcases, Sherlock’s laptop bag, and a trunk. John had no idea how all of that had managed to fit in the boot: it was like Mary Poppins’ cab. John half-expected to see a coat rack appear next.

Sherlock left John to pay the driver, while he went in search of a porter. “I wouldn’t mind a few weeks’ faffing about meself,” the cabbie mused, enviously, as John counted out bills. “’Course, I get sick on boats, and too much sun takes the missus ill. She gets a rash, you know, something awful,” he confided. “Still, ‘s terrible romantic, and all.”

John sighed in defeat.

A porter arrived, bobbing in Sherlock’s wake, to take the bulk of their luggage off somewhere, hopefully to rejoin the travelers later. John let himself be herded to the train, feeling like an irate sheep. Once they were seated in a nearly-empty compartment, laptops bags stowed, John pointed at Sherlock.

“Explain,” he demanded.

“You’re ruining the element of surprise, you know.” 

“I hate surprises.” 

“You love surprises!” Sherlock contradicted. “I brought you a muffin on Tuesday, and it made you very happy.”

“That was a present. Everyone likes presents. On the other hand, I’ve been shot, and that was a big fucking surprise. Not too keen on walking into a situation without intel, these days.”

“Ah, I see! Yes, of course, John, my deepest apologies.” Sherlock visibly reorganized his mind palace to accommodate the new information. “I will pay more attention to the subcategories of ‘gift’ and ‘surprise,’ moving forward.”

“Yes, wonderful, thanks so much. Now, back to the explanation.” John would not allow Sherlock to subvert this conversation.

“We have been engaged to determine if one Mr Robert Ferguson has been engaging in industrial espionage against his employer, a major biopharmaceutical company. To that end, we will be observing Mr and Mrs Ferguson as they celebrate their fifteenth wedding anniversary on a luxury cruise through the Mediterranean,” Sherlock concluded, gleefully. “All of our expenses are paid, of course, and I insisted on the best available remaining accommodations. Fortunately, the global economic crisis has reduced tourism to such a degree that the best available is very nice indeed.”

John felt a deep thrill of absolute horror. “What kind of ‘luxury cruise,’ exactly? Because if you mean 3,000 people and Legends of Vegas, I’m jumping out the window, right now.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock scoffed. “Olympus Cruises are exclusive. The Matilda Briggs--ridiculous name!--carries only 270 passengers, maximum. We are passengers 232 and 233, booked in the Thalia Suite. I tried to get the Erato Suite, but it was taken.”

This evidence of Sherlock’s unhappiness at having his nascent and somewhat creepy amorous impulses thwarted cheered John immeasurably. “That’s all right, then. Twenty-two days, you say? What’s the itinerary?”

Pleased at John’s interest, Sherlock spent the remaining hour of the train ride detailing the various ports of call, the amenities aboard ship, the history of the cruise line, and the phases of the moon during their trip. Apparently, investigation into weather, moonlight, and the vagaries of both, had formed a large part of his research for the case, since Sherlock had decided the trip would be suitable for multiple purposes. Not only was it a fairly interesting problem, but he had determined that the next series of trials for the Relationship Experiment required typically ‘romantic’ activities, as defined by women’s mags.

Adorable, John thought. Infuriating, of course, but Sherlock was often most appealing when he was navigating the shoals of his own desires. 

A town car was waiting for them outside the terminus, the driver holding up a sign reading 'HOLMES / WATSON.' John had no doubt that their bags were already stowed, a hypothesis proven when Sherlock strode up to the man and demanded, "Our luggage?"

"In the boot, Sir." The man gave them both a searching look, then returned his attention to Sherlock. "Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock gestured vaguely towards John, who waved. "And Dr Watson."

"Of course," the driver echoed, using his free hand to open the rear door. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. It's only a short way to the dock."

"I'm pretty sure he's illegally parked," John whispered to Sherlock, as the door clicked shut behind them. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The ride was as brief as promised, the car as silent and plush as one of Mycroft's. They eased to a stop well past the mega-liners queued up on docks, in front a sparkling white boat that would have seemed huge were it not dwarfed by its neighbors. Every surface gleamed, shining despite the hazy clouds that obscured the sun. The name Matilda Briggs scrolled across the side in large, Aegean blue script. 

It was an odd name for a boat belonging to a Mediterranean cruise line, although completely appropriate for one based out of Southampton. Sherlock had explained, with no little scorn, that the owner of the vessel was British, and had named all three of his boats after his ('ludicrously named,' as if someone christened Sherlock should be throwing stones) daughters.

The embarkation process went as smoothly as John could have wished. A porter whisked their bags away, while another escorted them through the gate and on board, where a frantically cheerful woman named Julie introduced herself as their Cruise Director.

Sherlock was staring fixedly at her hair, his fingers twitching, as the woman promised to do everything in her power to make their trip enjoyable. John had no doubt that she would strip off and dance a jig across the deck, if so requested. Not that he was interested in that sort of thing. Mostly, he was interested in getting Sherlock away from Ms McCoy before he asked for a hair sample. The last thing they needed was Sherlock being creepy and inappropriate before they had even left the dock. Although, even John had to admit that the bottle-blonde curls and rictus grin were terrifying.

Ms McCoy summoned yet another porter to escort them to their stateroom. The interior of the ship was as immaculate as the exterior. Plush carpet and gleaming wood surrounded them, adorned with brass-work roughly the same colour as Ms McCoy's coiffure. The overall impression was subdued, nautical affluence, the sort of sumptuousness that could only be maintained by an army of minions wielding polishing cloths and Hoovers in the wee hours.

Their suite was more of the same: deep armchairs upholstered in creamy velveteen; inlaid tables and desks; a queen-sized bed behind etched-glass doors, with an eiderdown duvet folded at the foot, opposite piles of buxom pillows. There was even a walk-in closet, their luggage set inside, and a bathroom with both a soaking tub and a shower.

Once the porter had finished the grand tour, John threw open the veranda doors, and turned in circles for a moment. Sherlock had disappeared into the closet, to fuss over his wardrobe. John needed the solitude to orient himself. His mind was spinning.

"Well," he said to the room at large, "this is very nice. Very nice, indeed."

A satisfied hum drifted from the closet. John grinned in Sherlock’s general direction, and dropped his laptop bag onto the floor, before falling into one of the plush chairs. He stretched his legs out and let his head fall back, with a sigh. "So," he asked, "what time's dinner?"

*


	2. Act I, Scene 2: FOG HIS FORTUNE (Saturday, May 15th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a tiny bit of sex, and quite a lot of sleeping, eating, and wandering about aimlessly.

John wasn't much of a drinker, indubitably due to his sister, so it was a unique experience for Sherlock to roll a slightly sloppy former-Army doctor into bed. He rather enjoyed the opportunity, suspecting that it wouldn't be repeated again, soon.

The toasts had been socially mandatory, if they wanted to blend in: Champagne on the Lido deck, as they waved Bon Voyage to Merry Olde England, then mingled with their fellow passengers, navy-suited waitstaff circulating with trays of fluted crystal swaying gracefully through the small crowd. Later, dinner in The Restaurant, a singularly uninspired name for the main dining space. Captain Stubing or his daughter (bitter, divorced, too thin) led, raising a glass as each absurdly decadent course was served, Holst playing softly in the background.

Sherlock had been tempted to leave John alone in their suite while he roamed the decks, poking into nooks and crannies as the boat gradually fell silent, tired guests retreating to their rooms after too much rich food and slightly above average alcohol. At the same time, he was loathe to leave, and miss the chance to watch John breathe, hear his whuffling snores. He compromised by sitting up in bed, laptop on his knees, while he studied the layout of the Tilly Briggs on the conveniently thorough company website.

It wasn't yet dawn when he felt satisfied, certain that he'd identified the important omissions, and allowed himself to close the laptop and slide under the covers. Sherlock curled around John, let the beat of his heart under Sherlock’s hand, the smell at the nape of his neck, tug him to sleep.

John had proven surprisingly adept at fellatio, in Sherlock’s opinion. He had expected reluctance, perhaps the occasional scrape of sharp teeth, but John had started careful, continued diligently, and progressed to quite excellent in just a few weeks. Unfortunately, his bladder was uncomfortably full, so he drummed his fingers on John's forehead, and John pulled away with a laugh. Morning blow-jobs were better in fiction, than in reality, Sherlock thought, but it was nice that John made the effort.

"You," John huffed, amused as always, "you have a bladder the size of a pea, I swear."

Sherlock rolled off the bed and through the connecting door to the loo. He pulled it half-closed behind him, still strangely shy about urinating in full view of another person. John seemed to think it was a sign of intimacy, but didn't protest Sherlock’s retreat. 

"Nonsense," Sherlock protested, raising his voice, "I drank as much as you did, and you have obviously already taken advantage of the facilities, so if anything, my capacity is greater. "

"Are you trying to impress me, or something?" If anything, John sounded even more amused.

In retaliation, Sherlock continued with his ablutions. He smeared tooth-gel on his brush and stepped directly into the shower, setting the water with one hand while he cleaned his teeth with the other. It took only a moment for John to join him, efficiently soaping himself, then passing the cloth and soap to Sherlock, after he spit and rinsed.

This wasn't the sort of activity that Sherlock had thought much about, before beginning his experiment with John. But John had taken it for granted that joint showers were allowable, and Sherlock had discovered an acute appreciation for a wet and soapy John Watson. John made washing fun, instead of merely tedious and necessary. The mutual, assisted masturbation certainly helped.

Orgasms made John talkative. He chattered through the rest of the shower, as they dried themselves and dressed, while Sherlock flipped through the leather folder on the desk. The glossy pages described the various options available for brunch, and Sherlock mused upon which would most please John. What would be romantic, or appropriate to Sherlock's purpose.

Sherlock felt languid and content, faintly drunk with affection. He'd always loved boats, the smell of the ocean, gently rocking on the waves. It hadn't occurred to him that John might get seasick, not until after they had watched Southampton recede into the distance, and then it was too late. But John was as steady on decking as he was on concrete, his eyes bright and curious as they flicked over the other passengers on the Promenade. 

John had picked up a brochure as they left their suite, and read select bits of the text aloud, as Sherlock steered him towards the cafe. The Restaurant was several decks down, but the smaller Cafe (another depressingly mundane name) was on the same level. He enjoyed the possessive feeling of pressing his hand against the small of John's back, his pinky finger just brushing John's belt. John appeared oblivious, but his grin, when he glanced up at Sherlock, seemed somehow gentle. It made Sherlock want to kiss him, with no intention of transcribing the experience later, in his notebook.

The buffet was predictably luxurious--not really a buffet, at all. White-coated chefs made eggs and waffles to order, served blini with lox, crème fraiche, and caviar. Sherlock allowed himself a selection of melon slices and berries, and ignored John loading both of their plates with a little of everything that struck his fancy, including several of the deeply golden blini. Sherlock’s stomach rumbled, and John smirked without looking up, just added a flaky chocolate croissant to Sherlock's plate. The combined aromas of warm butter and chocolate, sugar and wheat, made Sherlock salivate, his nostrils flare.

"Plan?" John finally asked, as they found an empty table. He paused as a waiter darted over to take their beverage orders, slipping easily into silence until cups and glasses had been delivered, and they were once more alone. "Both for today, and long range, I mean."

Sherlock shrugged, pressing the tines of his fork into the perfectly soft yolk of a poached egg. The mellow orange of it trickled down, seeping onto a bed of Dungeness crab, mingling with Hollandaise. The whole thing was obscenely rich, but Sherlock's stomach growled again, more insistently, so he surrendered. 

Flavor and texture exploded in his mouth. His eyes snapped shut, other senses seizing control. This was why he didn't eat, very often; it took all of his attention, even more than sex. Sherlock could disdain Mycroft for his appetites, but that was for giving in to them, not for having them. Sherlock had appetites. Sherlock's appetites could consume the world, as the drugs should have demonstrated to anyone with eyes and brain.

When he could think again, both plates were nearly empty, but had switched places, and John was leaning back, sipping his coffee and smiling.

"I'm always amazed at how much you can eat, when you deign to bother." Sherlock belched behind his serviette. John laughed. "This was a good idea. I've never seen you like this. It's... nice."

Sherlock shuffled through several thousand possible responses, his brain sorting choices, calculating optimal outcomes. "I like boats," he blurted out, mouth ejecting a card from the deck, perhaps randomly, perhaps not. As if liking boats was the only possible answer.

"Me, too," John said. "But you knew that."

"I thought I did, but then I... maybe you get seasick. But, no." 

"No," agreed John. "Harry used to, probably still does, but I don't get motion-sickness."

Of course. John was much too practical for such an inconvenient affliction. Sherlock had simply refused to allow it, training himself to endure until it was no longer necessary, for no other reason than to both impress and irritate Mycroft. Their childhood had been complicated.

"No plan," he said, instead of something else, something too personal. "We have two days at sea, before arriving in Lisbon. We listen, observe, mingle, make conversation. Best not to theorize ahead of the facts."

"Makes sense." John nodded, amenable. "Does this mean you're going to pretend to be normal?"

Sherlock considered, then shook his head. "Better not. We're going to be around these people for three weeks; I don't think I can maintain it that long."

"Good. It's creepy." Shuddering, John finished his coffee. "It makes you look like a serial killer."

There was really nothing Sherlock could say to that, so he picked up the remnant of pain au chocolat and stuffed it in his mouth. Delicious.

After brunch, they sauntered slowly up to the Lido deck. Sherlock made observations on the other passengers, quietly pointing out salient facts. He made an effort to pace himself to John, forcing a leisure that he currently felt, but was accustomed to suppressing. It was important to appear relaxed; his demeanor had to declare, "I am on vacation," for all to see. This was what a genius, a consulting detective, a high-functioning sociopath, looked like while on holiday with his blogger boyfriend.

So Sherlock dropped his shoulders, let his gaze wander. He walked with his hands in his trouser pockets, shirt sleeves rolled up. He'd chosen not to wear a jacket; fortunately, the weather held mild, if not quite warm enough for linen. John strolled beside him, completely innocuous in one of his ubiquitous cardigans. The perfect cover, infinitely more dangerous than a sociopath.

They saw the Fergusons only once, as they wandered through the boat, the pair making a sortee to the ship's medical facility, both rather green and shiny. John and Sherlock lingered nearby, taking turns keeping the door in sight, until the Fergusons reappeared, clutching small white sacks. The older couple were staying in the Calliope Suite, but Sherlock tailed them anyway, pretending to be lost, with John's connivance.

After their little skit, John and Sherlock returned to their own suite, stifling laughter until they were safely behind closed doors.

"We should have gone left, dear, " John said, again, this time with blatant mockery. "Sweet 'ums. Arse."

Sherlock toed off his shoes on his way to the bed. "Fuck off," he said, as he fell forward onto the mattress, feet hanging off the side. "The tedium is exhausting. I don't think I can bear three weeks of this."

John crawled up beside him, stripped down to his pants and vest. "Take your clothes off."

"John," Sherlock complained, lifting his head to glare at the other man. "I have a headache."

"You know, I believe you. Only you could possibly say that seriously. Lift up."

"What?" Sherlock asked, rolling off the bed and quickly shedding his clothes. He slid between the covers. John was already cocooned, so Sherlock moved close, sliding a hand up John's thigh. "I do!"

"And that's why I told you to take your clothes off. We're going to nap, before we start our evening of mingling and eating."

"Oh." Despite the very real ache behind his eyes, Sherlock had been willing to allow himself to be persuaded. Was quite prepared to be persuaded, and felt vaguely disappointed at being denied the chance to play hard to get. But John looked as tired as Sherlock felt, so instead he let himself be persuaded to sleep for a couple of hours.

*


	3. Act I, Scene 3:  TIDY CANOE FIESTA (Still Saturday, May 15th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes get all dressed up and manage not to discuss prostates at dinner. (See, you can take them out!)

"So, what's our cover?"

Sherlock looked up from his cufflinks, confused. "We're not in disguise, John. Surely that is obvious even to you."

"No, yeah, I got that. But what's our story? Why are we taking a cruise together? Unless you actually want the entire boat to know you're on a case, in which case you might as well walk up to Ferguson at dinner and demand the documents, or whatever."

"We're on holiday." John rarely got to enjoy that particular expression of bafflement on Sherlock's face. He treasured it, cradling the moment like a little bird. Then he set it free.

Flicking a finger at Sherlock's forehead, he explained, fondly, "you are an idiot. Why are we on holiday, together? Men, even great detectives and their bloggers, do not spend three weeks on expensive and romantic cruises, without a very good reason. Maybe especially detectives and their bloggers."

"Really? How banal." Sherlock ran his hands up John's sides, enjoying the fine cotton broadcloth. "I like you dressed up," he murmured.

John laughed, and let his own fingers wander through Sherlock's hair. "Well, since we are obviously a couple, it should be a relationship reason. Like, um, we're trying one last time to make it work, because..."

Sherlock shoved his face into John's stomach and growled.

"Okay, that's a no. Taking it to the next level, then?"

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes hard enough that John could feel it through the starched placket of his shirt.

"All right, then, the last two choices are honeymoon or anniversary. The first has the advantage that we can disappear for long periods of time and people will just assume we're shagging like rabbits." Sherlock hummed, interested. "But if we go with anniversary, no one will think it odd if we split up now and then. Both require that we share embarrassing relationship stories at meals."

"Honeymoon," the detective said firmly, into John's navel. "Best to stick as closely to the truth as possible. And we have a plethora of stories. I can share how I learned to find the prostate gland, in order to satisfy you sexually."

"Er, no. Not that one. Absolutely never tell anyone about that. Ever." John's voice was stern, but his gaze had gone slightly unfocused and goofy when Sherlock chose honeymoon. It was the truth, but somehow hearing Sherlock say it made his stomach turn to warm caramel. "Honeymoon, though. Agreed."

They remained that way, Sherlock seated on the edge of the bed, John standing between his knees, for a long moment. It was a rare moment of tenderness, John thought, until Sherlock said, "John, if you don't let go of my head, we cannot finish dressing for dinner."

"Oh. Yes, sorry." John untangled his fingers from Sherlock's completely destroyed hair, and stepped back. Sherlock smiled and stood, before swooping down to peck him on the mouth.

"Don't apologize. I like it." Sherlock smiled, then turned toward the closet. He caught sight of himself in one of the many decorative mirrors scattered around the wall of the suite, and grimaced. "John," he complained, patting at his hair. John shrugged. What did Sherlock expect?

They finished preparing in relative silence. Sherlock had insisted that John should wear mess dress; he was inordinately fond of the plumed beret, and seemed to delight in every opportunity to force John to wear the bloody thing. While John was proud of his service, and sanguine about wearing his medals, the hat made him feel like an absolute tit. Nonetheless, he stood patiently, chin up, while Sherlock adjusted it to the appropriate angle, with a nod to the rakish, then let himself be turned and patted, long hands smoothing imaginary creases and brushing at phantom lint.

"Enough," he said, finally. John took a moment to examine Sherlock, in turn. They were both in tuxedos, but there the resemblance ended. Sherlock had purchased both, for a case, although John suspected that the case had been taken in order to revamp John's wardrobe. Not that Sherlock had skimped on spending the client's dosh on himself, not at all. And Sherlock had been an hysterically convincing fashion editor. The Case of the Runway Runaway had been great fun, and for once a case hadn't involved kidnapping, murder, blackmail, or child exploitation. Just a straightforward rich-kid rebellion, with plenty of laughs. The girl had been quite sweet, in an ironic-teenager way, and the parents were posh, but loving and reasonable, just worried.

John had been slightly surprised that Sherlock's perfect taste extended to people besides himself. He shouldn't have been, perhaps, but while Sherlock's suit had long, slender, arced lapels, with simple, black cummerbund and tie, John had been fitted with a tone-on-tone maroon, paisley waistcoat, that buttoned almost to his throat, and a jacket with wide, high lapels. A regimental ascot replaced the traditional bow tie, and the effect, with his medals and beret, John had to admit, was rather dashing.

Sherlock, on the other hand, looked like sex on legs. His jacket was open, and his long throat was wrapped like a gift, just waiting for John to pull the bow. John wanted to gnaw up Sherlock's jugular and growl in his ear, until Sherlock's knees buckled.

He dragged his eyes away, to find Sherlock smirking at him, eyelids heavy. "You know, maybe we should stay in tonight, to establish our cover," Sherlock offered, lazily. He shifted his weight, and somehow sexy became downright sultry. Not fair.

Deliberately, John turned his back, clearing his throat. He caught a glimpse of Sherlock in one of the ubiquitous mirrors, an impish grin on his face. Sherlock had been insufferable ever since he had discovered how quickly he could get John's motor revving. Not that John was complaining. No, perish the very thought.

The two men joined the muted bustle of passengers heading for The Restaurant. Tonight was the first formal dinner; the previous had been rather casual, in deference to the fuss of debarkation. Only slightly over half the passengers had even shown, and the crew had made themselves scarce after the initial toast on the Lido, returning hastily to their duties.

At this dinner, John and Sherlock would establish their cover, and Sherlock would take the opportunity to observe the interplay between passengers. John would lay the ground for future covert interrogations, a friendly and pleasant veteran and GP, a bit quiet, but that was to be expected, and so kind, don't you think? It constantly baffled Sherlock that people could look at John and not see--not observe the predator, ever watchful and ready. But then, again, people were idiots, and thought house-cats were fluffy little Bootsie-Wootsies, and not sadistic serial-killers that liked to torture hapless mice.

(Sherlock rather liked mice. Mycroft had given him a white one on his seventh birthday, in an exquisite Victorian cage. Sherlock named him Algernon—derivative, but Sherlock had been seven. Excuses could be made. Algernon died a few months before Sherlock turned nine, and the resulting period of extended mourning had resulted in a moratorium on future pets in the Holmes household. Bees, apparently, had not counted as pets, although Sherlock had never understood the difference. He had certainly been quite as fond of his hives, as he was of Algernon.)

They were not seated with the Fergusons, unfortunately. That would have been improbably fortuitous, but one could hope. Instead, John and Sherlock dined with three generations of the Duchy of Holdernesse: the widowed Duchess Saltire, her son and daughter-in-law, and their young daughter, Violet. The Duchess was a terror, an imposing silver fox who completely eclipsed Huxtable and Imogene. Violet showed every sign of inheriting her grandmother's personality, and the two spent the meal either sparring amiably or grilling John and Sherlock.

Sherlock restrained himself from mentioning prostate glands, or anything else related to their sex life, for which John was intensely grateful. By unspoken agreement, the men tell only stories from the blog or John's book, falling into the familiar patter: Sherlock complains about John's romanticism, while the doctor deflects guilelessly, turning every question back to their interlocutors. It's so rote and comfortable that Sherlock was free to observe and deduce.

John was, in this case, correct. They did need a cover, if for no other reason than John's class. The guests slanted heavily towards the extremely posh, with the remainder obviously personal assistants, nannies, and private security. John was solidly middle-class, and clearly on Sherlock's arm. No one of John's apparent upbringing would be on a cruise like this, unless he was at least 25 years older, and even that would be unlikely.

Fortunately, the sheer combined wealth and inbreeding resulted in a group that took their own good manners for granted, and prided themselves on their open-mindedness. John's pleasant and agreeable manner, and his self-deprecating humor, stood him in good stead in most company. It was one of John's most useful and disarming qualities.

Sherlock thought about shamming a bit, playing up the homosexuality aspect of their relationship, just to see what response it would engender, but John somehow sensed the thought, shooting Sherlock a sharp look, mid-anecdote.

"So, then, Sherlock spins around, in the middle of a crowd of Scotland Yards finest, holding a pebble up like it's the Crown Jewels, or something, and declares, I swear, he declares, 'Sedimentary, my dear Watson!'" John turned to grin at Sherlock, placing his hand over the other man's and squeezing, gently, as the rest of the table laughed.

Sherlock decided he didn't need to sham, after all. Turning his hand over, he squeezed back, and the laughter turned to coos. Women, so sentimental, really.

"Right, that's enough, then," he announced, rising and tugging John up after him. Dessert had come and gone, and people were beginning to drift out in small groups. Sherlock tossed his napkin on the table. "I do believe it's time to retire. Delightful meeting you, beg your pardon, ta and all that." Sherlock nodded briefly at the others and strode from the dining room, pulling John in his wake.

"Sherlock!" John scolded. "That was rude!"

"Nonsense, John, it was expected. It would be out of character for newlyweds to linger at table, when they could be shagging like rabbits." He dragged John down the corridor, noting that John was trotting right along, not resisting in the least. The gentleman might protest a bit too much. Coming to a halt at their stateroom, Sherlock slanted John a sly look, as he opened the door. "Or is the blush already off the rose?" He batted his eyelashes.

John strode past and into the suite. "Not a chance," John said, turning to catch the door. He closed it gently, then crowded Sherlock back against the surface. "I can't imagine a day will ever come when I don't want to make you blush." The words were sweet, but the tone was predatory.

Sherlock's breath caught, excited by the contradiction. Holding his gaze, John reached up and bit gently at Sherlock's neck, licking up to his ear. He growled, and Sherlock's knees started to buckle. Oh, yes, he thought, as the sturdy weight of his doctor held him up, even as his blood rushed down. Let's not imagine that day.


	4. Act I, Scene 4:  WROTE CATASTROPHIC PITCH (Sunday, May 16th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I steal from others, I think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure that I did not think up "amorous octopus," but I don't remember who I stole it from--so sorry, thanks!

Waking up with Sherlock Holmes was not like anything John had ever experienced before and exactly what he should have expected. Sometimes, rarely, Sherlock was asleep, twined around John like an amorous octopus. Sometimes John woke up to experiments or Sherlock correcting the internet. And, on occasion, he woke to Sherlock measuring the girth of John's penis with calipers. Among other measurements, some of them quite intimate, thank you very much.

The point being that John never knew what version of Sherlock would greet him in the morning. The uncertainty gave a certain zest to days that would have otherwise loomed banal and tedious. Sherlock made John's blood rush through his veins, his heart pump, his lungs gasp for oxygen. It was no wonder that he'd fallen for the mad bastard.

On this occasion, Sherlock was typing maniacally, muttering about pet hair. John couldn't help but admire the sight of a naked detective, pale and wiry, cataloging the previous night's observations, propped up on all of the pillows. Selfish twat.

"Pet hair, John. Still present this early in the cruise. I need caffeine."

John knew a hint went he was beaten with it. Levering himself up from the bed, he inquired, "Anything else, Your Highness?"

"Glucose or sucrose. Either will do."

"Of course."

John dressed and wandered out to the sitting room, opening the conveniences folder. Did he really feel like leaving the suite? "Is room service included in our fare?" he called, practicality triumphing, for the moment.

"John, everything is included. If you ask for an extra pillow, they will send us a prostitute."

"Wha? Jesus fucking Christ, you aren't serious."

Silence from the bedroom.

"You're serious?"

"You'll want to specify 'firm' or 'soft,' unless you really do want a pillow."

"Well." John rubbed his lips, wondering. "How do I just order room service, for brekkie?"

"Try the usual way. With two poached eggs and fruit. No berries."

"Right, yes, seeds. You and seeds."

"They stick in my teeth. It's uncomfortable. I don't like it."

"Yes, I know, I've heard it, frequently and at length. Poached eggs and fruit, no berries. And coffee."

On a whim, John ordered a bit of everything. Sherlock claimed that it was all transport, but John was sleeping with him, and knew better. They had six different varieties of honey in the pantry, and Sherlock licked his fingers when John put marmalade on their toast. John knew a hedonist, when he saw one. And if the client was paying, they could afford to indulge themselves.

Three-continents Watson, his Army mates called him, only because Europe was taken for granted. Otherwise, it would have been four. John remembered all of his past lovers with distant fondness, but none compared to the lunatic that currently occupied his bed. 

Cock, he thought, examining his response as he waited for the steward. Nothing. Sherlock's cock. Interest, interesting. Gay sex? Nope, not interested. Sucking off Sherlock? Interested.

John had been performing this particular thought experiment for months, and the results never changed. Not gay, just gay for Sherlock. John wanted Irene Adler to die in a fire, except when he didn't, when he was grateful to the bitch.

The steward arrived with their food and John got to experience the rare sight of Sherlock licking egg yolk from a fork. Then they shagged, because such a thing could not be allowed to pass without a shag. Sufficiently recovered, they walked, perambulating the various decks, so that Sherlock could augment the published plans with his own observations. 

"This will become a habit," John observed, as they walked along the edge of the pool. Few people were swimming, but the deck chairs were nearly all occupied. 

"Yes. A useful routine, that goes completely unremarked in this context. In America, this would be called casing the joint. Yet, no one is concerned. Really, quite perfect." Sherlock perused the bathers, his gaze so penetrating that it might have been mistaken for lascivious by someone who didn't know him. "Americans," he snorted.

"What about them?"

Instead of answering directly, Sherlock asked, "What do you observe, John?"

John cast his eyes across the figures laid out on the deck like honey-glazed corpses. It was disturbing that his mind automatically filed a still figure under the category of "corpse," but he couldn't blame Sherlock for that. John had been categorizing the living, wounded, and dead for almost two decades before he'd ever met the detective, a hazard of his own vocational choices, and quite possibly a predilection that had led to aforementioned career.

People looked at John and Sherlock—dark and light, short and tall, toff and prole—and assumed that they were as different underneath as they appeared, polar opposites. In fact, they were exactly alike in all the ways that mattered. John had even picked up something of Sherlock's methods, though his senses weren't nearly as acute, and he was most successful when reasoning backwards, validating conclusions that he reached subconsciously.

"I think. It's not any single thing, it's a lot of small things put together." Sherlock hummed encouragement. "Not just tan or wearing jewelry, but both. Highlights and cosmetic surgery. No definite ethnic features, yet distinct from Canadians and Australians."

"The size of their personal space: an American never sits next to a stranger, and often not even next to a companion, without an intervening chair or seat."

John nodded, seeing it now that it was pointed out to him, but not understanding Sherlock's disdain. "Why do you care? Doesn't that make them easy to deduce?"

"Precisely. Incredibly dull." Sherlock turned away from the pool and led them off the Lido deck.

"Is this all we're doing, today?" John asked, as they ambled slowly down the stairs. Sherlock had deemed it warm enough to wear linen slacks and shirt, and the material caressed his arse affectionately. John could only admire and envy.

"Not at all. Shortly, we will part with suitable expressions of romanticism, you will visit the casino, and I will do some shopping."

Grimacing, John protested. "I hate gambling, Sherlock. It's boring, I never win, and you can't get a decent pint for love nor money."

"But you are especially horrid at shopping, John, so you will have to be my eyes in the casino."

"I'm fine at shopping! I keep us fed, don't I?"

"Yes, yes, you are quite adequate at hunting and gathering, but that's not quite what is required in these circumstances. I shall have to spend a great deal of money on overpriced apparel and useless gauds in order to extract information about the crew. Hardly your sort of thing."

Having seen Sherlock shopping, John had to agree, if reluctantly. He grumbled as they parted on the Club deck, taking the wad of cash Sherlock passed him with ill grace. 

"I'll find you when I'm done," Sherlock promised. "Three hours, tops."

"If I don't drink myself unconscious, first."

"Do try, John, I'm depending on you." He swooped down to place an ostentatious kiss on John's mouth and squeezed his arse.

John jumped, as Sherlock smirked at him. "Jesus, Sherlock!"

"Careful, John," he murmured, "remember that we are newlyweds. You never know who might be watching."

"Yes, but we're English newlyweds, and blokes. We're practically required to be repressed. I think it might even be a law."

Sherlock just patted his cheek and wandered away, looking deceptively harmless. John sighed and went looking for a pint, to fortify himself before his ordeal.

The Casino was as boring as predicted, although he managed to strike up a few conversations with fellow passengers, mostly men and older women. Neither Ferguson made an appearance, and none of John's fellow gamblers seemed like the sort of person to be engaged in buying corporate secrets, but how could one tell? Americans often opened conversations with "So, what do you do?" but Brits most certainly did not, nor did the class of person who played craps on exclusive cruises. John suspected that many of them had never held any sort of job, at all, and felt distinctly out of place. 

Yes, he'd been to Majorca, et cetera, et cetera, but he'd been a soldier on leave, not one of the idle rich. He was more familiar with the dives and boozers, than boutiques and resorts. By the time Sherlock found him, he was sitting moodily at a fruit machine with a cup of tokens and a whiskey beside him.

"You appear to be conscious," Sherlock said from behind him. John had seen him approaching, reflected in the glass. He downed the last of his drink, and turned, rising from the padded stool he'd been holding down for an hour.

"Appearances are deceiving. Are we done, here? I'm starving, and I think my arse has fallen off."

"For now. We'll need to repeat the performance a few more times, when we're not in port, but there's nothing more I can do, today."

"Thank God. Let me cash in my tokens, and then you can buy me lunch."

Surprisingly, John came out a bit ahead. Maybe it was spending other people's money, because he'd always lost when it was his own. Of course, Sherlock deduced it, immediately.

"I think you should buy me lunch," he said mildly, as they exited.

"Fair enough."

Once they were seated in the Cafe, colorful totes piled on the banquette beside Sherlock, he began relaying everything he'd learned to the detective. It wasn't much, he thought, but Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he listened intently, before sharing details of what Sherlock himself had learned in the shops. John was, as usual, amazed at how much detail Sherlock had been able to extract from his victims, but Sherlock dismissed his praise.

"But is it relevant?" Sherlock poked viciously at his mash, clearly frustrated. "Any one of them could our buyer, and they are a remarkably transient population. "

"Is it even certain that Ferguson is selling?"

"Yes, that is not in question, and the cruise is a perfect opportunity. But on board, or in port?" Sherlock mused. "All I know is that they haven't left their room since visiting the ship's doctor."

"Well, maybe it's him, then."

"Impossible. Doctor Bricker is an imbecile. An amiable imbecile, I will grant, but completely witless."

John didn't bother to protest, although he had thought the man alright. Not a brain surgeon, but pleasant enough, and probably more than capable of handling the variety of ailments and mishaps that could occur far from a proper hospital. He pushed around the last of his salad. What would his life be like if he'd signed onto a cruise ship, instead of joining the RAMC? He cast his mind back on his morning, and forward to the next three weeks, and realized that he was already bored. The thought of being a cruise ship's doctor made his stomach twist with revulsion. He'd have thrown himself over the side out of sheer boredom. 

Suddenly, John could tell the future: he and Sherlock were going to be stir-crazy before very long, even with the frequent ports of call. They were trapped on a boat, with no one to chase, or shoot. Sherlock might very well end up murdering someone. John might end up murdering Sherlock. This was Sherlock's worst idea, ever.

"I can't believe I'm hoping for a good murder," he said, morosely. 

"Chin up, Captain, we call into Lisbon, tomorrow. We can tail the Fergusons, and maybe someone will try to mug us," Sherlock responded, with indecent cheer. "That's always good fun."

"Ha. I bet they don't even leave their room. They looked pretty ill, and we haven't seen them, since."

"I wonder..." 

"Wonder what?"

"No, it's ludicrous. Completely ridiculous."

"What, Sherlock?" demanded John, exasperated at Sherlock's unusual incoherence.

"John, do you think it's possible that the Fergusons are... dead?"


End file.
